


Be Not Forgetful

by Sakon76



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakon76/pseuds/Sakon76
Summary: A peckish angel and his demonic counterpart wander into a Providence cafe.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 19
Kudos: 131





	Be Not Forgetful

The bell over the door chimed, and two men* walked in.

"Look, all I'm saying is that it's a very long way to've come, we might as well make the most of it while we're here," said one, who was rather taller, thinner, and more ginger than his companion.

"Well, of course we came!" replied his companion, shorter, stouter, and with an affinity for bow ties. "I mean, he's _practically_ our godson! Don't you want to make sure he's off to a good university?"

The taller one looked almost melancholy for a moment. "I'm not sure he'd really recognize us anymore, _Brother Francis_."

"Nonsense, _Nanny_ ," the other replied with just a hint of a sniff. "Children never really forget. It just sometimes takes them longer to remember. Now, what do you fancy?"

The shop into which the two had stepped was part bakery, part cafe. Glass cases filled with delicacies both sweet and savory flanked the register, and behind it stood a wall of intimidating coffee machines. Two-thirds of the tables were filled, but at the moment there was no queue.

"Well." Crowley's eyes scanned the lengthy chalk menu over the coffee machines, then fell to the cashier. "What do you recommend, darling?"

The young woman--blonde, ponytailed, wearing that nebulous expression endemic to part-timers--surprised him by grinning. "You look like a chocolate man."

"I could be tempted," Crowley said.

"Then I'd say the French silk pie." She squinted at him just a little. "À la mode."

"Hit me up with all the sin, darling. And a coffee. Black."

"Really, Crowley," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes in spirit if not in body. "A bit predictable."

"Oh? And what're you having, angel?"

"I'll try the apple pie, please," Aziraphale told the girl. "Also à la mode. With a tea, please."

"Iced, southern, or hot?"

He blinked. "Oh. Americans," he said, like he'd forgotten where they were. "Hot. Milk and two sugars."

"Right." She rang them up and accepted payment from Crowley's Black card**.

"Well, then," Aziraphale said, once they were settled in their seats, treats on the table before them, waiting as the machines behind the counter worked their Biblical magic to transform water into civilized beverages. "This does seem a very charming little cafe."

"Yes, charming," Crowley said, looking briefly at the mural on the wall behind Aziraphale and the verse laced in among the images.

"Here you go, gentlemen." Another girl, this one dark-skinned with short sleeves that showed off her inked forearms, set their beverages down before them. As she straightened, the door bell chimed again. This time a young man came in, sweaty from a run. From the way his shirt and shorts clung to his musculature, it was rather obvious that several sculptors of Crowley's past acquaintance would have given quite a lot to have him model for them.

"Hey, Tracy," he greeted the server. "Bits around?"

"Hey, Jack," she replied. "He's in the back."

"Thanks." With a nod, seemingly unaware of Crowley's covetous and Aziraphale's appreciative gazes, he headed toward the kitchen.

"Who on Earth is that?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh, that's Jack. Zimmermann. The hockey player?" Tracy said. "He's Bitty's husband. The owner-slash-baker's husband."

A short blond man emerged from the kitchen and collected a kiss from the taller before they both disappeared out of sight.

Tracy sighed. "Here's to hoping I can find someone who looks at me like that, someday."

"Hockey?" Aziraphale asked Crowley as Tracy headed back to the counter.

"Yeah, bloody sport. Played on ice. I got a commendation for coming up with it, you know."

Aziraphale dug a fork into his pie. "Did you actually invent it?"

Crowley grinned. "Didn't have a thing to do with it."

Aziraphale chuckled, and took a bite of his pie.

He froze.

"Crowley," he said, voice strange. The demon looked at him with a concerned expression. "Crowley, you must try this." He pushed the plate across the table, between them.

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley took a taste.

And froze.

"That's--" he said.

"Divine grace," Aziraphale choked.

It was a moment before Crowley could speak. Because Aziraphale was right. "That's what apples were meant for," Crowley said, voice shocked. "That's... that's what She planned them for," he said, his fork gesturing at the piece of pie. "Not just that business in the Garden."

"Well," said Aziraphale, still staring at the pie. "Well. It's good to see some chickens coming home to roost, so to speak."

"It's made with love, that is," Crowley said, almost disdainfully, as if it was a matter of habit***. His gaze fell speculatively upon his own pie. "Hmm." He stabbed a forkful and tried it.

"Well?"

"Not as good as that," Crowley said, gesturing again at the apple. "But damned near."

"My word." Aziraphale pulled his plate back closer to himself and speared another forkful. "Well, I think we'll need to be coming back here again."

"Agreed."

"And maybe... bring young Warlock with us?" the angel suggested.

Crowley didn't actually smile so much as the corners of his mouth turned slightly up. "Sure, angel."

And as the cafe's owner came out of the kitchen, a new tray of treats in his hands, his smiling husband close behind, there wasn't a trace of divinity about him. But Crowley's eyes kept catching on the words on the wall behind his angelic counterpart: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

And he couldn't help but wonder, once again, about humanity.

* * *

*Or, at least, two beings who looked like men. They really weren't.

**It wasn't an American Express card, though Crowley generally approved both of Americans and of credit cards, both of which lent themselves to chaos and temptation so remarkably easily. No; though this card was, in fact, black, it came express from a place that America, though a secular society on the face of it, generally chose not to approve of. And Crowley never got a bill. Or at least never bothered paying it.

***It was. Old habits die hard.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I just recently had the chance to watch Good Omens. And then I reread the novel. And now Check, Please! is coming to an end. So somehow these two series came together in my head, and this fanfic is inspired by Aziraphale's foodie ways and Parse's reaction to Bitty's pies. Thanks to my Wonderful Husband for bouncing ideas and lines back and forth with me and beta'ing the result.


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